Prelude
by CBK1000
Summary: Tell you a story. Once upon a time there was a hero. He didn't make it.


**A/N: Here's the deal on this: read it as a standalone right now. It may become a full novel later, however-it was an idea that suddenly popped into my head the other day, a sort of what if that is mostly just a self-indulgent excuse for me to plug my favorite character into FF 8's plot as the protagonist. Basically, this is my take on what would happen if Squall died during his SeeD exam and Seifer became the focus of Final Fantasy 8 and how that would change events. I'm finishing up another FF 8 fic under a different penname and that takes precedence right now, so like I said, consider this a standalone for right now. If my plans come to fruition, it will eventually be a full-length multi-chaptered fic. Feedback appreciated; let me know if you would like to see a follow-up on this. **

_Tell you a story. _

_Once upon a time there was a hero. Or there was supposed to be a hero-I always fucking forget exactly how this goes again. Always supposed to be a hero, though, isn't there? _

_Funny thing about heroes though-they tend to be a lot prettier on paper than they are face to face. You'll see what I mean next time you run across one and suddenly you understand the universe's little punch line-they're a sweat-reeking shitheel of a human being that would rather take a foot of barbed wire in the ass than spend any amount of time handjobbing your wounded fucking feelings, and suddenly those fairy tales your mother's lying goddamned mouth used to read you as a child taste like ashes on your tongue. _

_Or blood. Everything tends to taste like blood these days. Blood and that pervasive shit-smell of the guy next to me dying in his own filth._

_Forget that though. _

_This story isn't about that guy. _

_Once upon a time there was this robotic-faced asshole of a hero who could have really amounted to something-ah, shit. _

_Forget that guy, too._

_Who's telling this fucking story?_

* * *

><p>There is this tidal-wave pulse in his ears that he thinks might be his heart and inside his gloves his fingers slide long slow coils of fist clench-<p>

There is sand underneath his boots.

This is the only thing he can comprehend, right now.

Flare signals of battle spiral raging around him and at his back bob million-gil silhouettes of sleek-shining warships he can hear slapping against the waves-

That asshole's still falling.

He's been falling forever.

Seamless brushed-steel links of arachnid-jointed war machine crack his spine into a hunchback ripple of red-gleaming bone that pokes up through his uniform and he's on his knees now, or that asshole is-he's not sure what the fuck's happening anymore-

And that sand's just spinning right the fuck up toward his face, because Squall Leonhart's this masticated little lump of meat on the sand across from him and he's got both hands screwed down into that sand as hard as he can hold on-

Instructor Trepe's screaming for him to hurry.

That X-ATM's starting to head his way.

Leonhart's _dead_. Leonhart is fucking _dead _and he can't bring himself scrabbling back to his feet and that shrill-screaming _bitch _is still yammering on in his ear-

He doesn't want to fucking hurry. He just wants to understand what the fuck is happening.

Leonhart's not dead. He is the closest thing Seifer Almasy ever had to an equal, and he is not _dead_. Maybe there are cadets and SeeDs in full regalia dead all around him, maybe there are shit-slimed piles on the ground slipping moaning into the afterlife, or wherever the hell it is they're going, but Leonhart's not one of them.

Someone's hand is on his shoulder.

What, she doesn't see her precious Puberty Boy sprawled out on the sand across from them? She doesn't realize her star fucking pupil, her shining goddamned light with the rainbows hanging out of his ass is just a fucking _body _now?

He slaps her hand stinging away.

That thing is coming for him and he doesn't _want _her help, he doesn't need her to bring him stumbling back up to his feet-he's got his teeth clenched down like he's trying to break them and Hyperion's a cold hard slither down his side as he brings it fumbling from its scabbard to swing a light speed hammer blow of a strike that clangs it echoing off that thing's body-

And his lips peel up off his teeth.

He is not smiling.

Here's something this thing doesn't know: he's a real good jumper. Spent a lot of time in the gym doing power squats and leg presses and all kinds of shit, narcissistic asshole that he is, and now with this hot black tingle of adrenaline playing fuckass with all his systems, it's like having a couple of jet packs strapped to his hips.

And he's got his feet underneath him now.

He shoots straight up.

His boots land like another fucking hammer blow. Instructor Trepe's a dot on the ground below him, and the dumb bitch isn't moving-he doesn't care all that much if she wants to get herself killed, but she better stay the _fuck _out of his way.

One of those limbs comes up with a drill-scream of joints torquing the wrong way and tries to peel him thrashing off its head, and he knocks it squealing aside with a slash that rips Hyperion spinning from his hand.

Well, fuck.

See how the thing likes a couple of thunder spells up its proverbial asshole.

He's never liked magic much-it's unpredictable and itchy as hell and it gives him a fucking headache like you wouldn't believe, like Hyne's got his whole fucking hand in there just kinda' tweaking everything, but he brings it surging from his veins now to fry a twitching shudder down through this thing-

And with one long epileptic jerk of a shoulder shrug, it sends him flying.

Everything's sand and pain and he can't _breathe _it's like Raijin sitting on his motherfucking _chest_-

Inhale, exhale-a long slow whistle like incoming bomber strike, that's what his lungs sound like right now-

He knows this feeling, though.

Now that the guy's dead, he's not ashamed to admit Leonhart handed his ass to him a few times. A very _rare _few times, y'know.

And this is what it felt like.

And he scraped himself right the hell back onto his feet anyway, and he kept going.

Maybe he's moving like a corpse dragging itself from the grave, but he's moving at least, and maybe there's a line of fire chewing its way down his ribs and maybe every breath's a goddamned rusty sword-scrape of a hiccup that makes him want to vomit-

But he's not down for the fucking count yet.

In fact, he's still got a few things up his sleeve.

Got his gunblade back in his hand, too.

And, y'know, this nifty as fucking hell machine gun he rolled one of those Galbadian corpses for.

Trepe's voice is back in his ear, screaming for back-up. He wants to tell her to shut the fuck up, because he's _got this_, but he doesn't have the breath.

Don't need a whole lot of oxygen to jam a trigger flat against the guard and unload an entire belt-fed mag of armor-piercing rounds that chew sparks of ricochet screeching across reinforced-steel headpiece, though. How's _this _for leadership skills, Instructor Trepe?

He kinda' wants to see her face.

He's got one more jump left in him, though, and his gun's clicking on empty as he takes it and there's a strident scream of a slump that reminds him a lot of Trepe-

And for a moment that X-ATM's just sort of hanging there, like it's waiting for him to make the next move.

Sure. He's all for that. Here it is.

He's still one-handing that gunblade for all he's worth as he lands hard enough to buckle his knees underneath him, and that twitchy shit from Unarmed Combat 103 would be proud as hell, to see him now: he's got his whole body behind this strike he drives straight down through the cluster of wires in front of him, and in his sockets his shoulders squeal nails-on-chalkboard shrieks of protest.

He pulls the trigger.

He's flying again-not a graceful gull-glide catching updrafts that send him looping up toward the clouds, but this ass-over-fucking-teakettle somersault that slams him skidding down across the ground.

All he's got left is blood. Sight taste smell-they're all wrapped up in this one crimson splatter of a sensation that tastes like bile.

Guess he's got room for one more sense, then. His tongue's got acidic little clots of the shit all over it and his nostrils snort dribbles of today's breakfast that burn like a motherfucker-

Not sure why he's puking. Because everything hurts so damn bad, or because that sparking heap of a thing tossed him half a foot away from his old nemesis when it blew?

Leonhart's got these glazed little marbles for eyes now. His forehead scar's still a raw pink stripe of a thing that used to put a swell of pride in his heart every time he caught a glimpse of it, and it's got sand and blood and these little red-smeared pieces Seifer thinks might be some cadet's intestines all packed in it.

Leonhart's gone and Quistis' voice is gone and the sky is going too and somewhere inside his head there's a kaleidoscope swirl of yellow beach and blue sky-

There are hands bandaging the cuts he picked up brawling with Squall on that beach and a long slow flicker of a smile that makes him feel ashamed-

Once there were two boys with a mother who loved them and maybe they loved each other too, just a little, even if they didn't want to admit it-

And maybe this puberty-challenged jerkoff could have been his brother, maybe this ragged blood-streaked thing could have been his friend, if they'd ever stopped fighting long enough to try that on for size-

He's blinking something out of his eyes.

Not tears-give him a fucking break. He doesn't care.

That much.

Wanna' know something, though? It's not something he's gone around broadcasting or anything-he's got this reputation to uphold, after all-but he sorta' admired the guy a little, once in a while. He sorta' sometimes almost wanted to be him for just a moment, with Instructor Trepe bent over her desk in that little fucking skirt praising that blue-eyed goddamned automaton and letting Seifer Almasy slide away into obscurity.

He's gonna' rip your lying throat out, that gets out.

Funny how life works out sometimes-there's a hero and there's a villain and the lines are supposed to be black and white, and you're not supposed to play fucking jump rope with those lines-

Everything in those stories his mother used to tell him was always so cut and dried, y'know? He's always counted on being the knight and saving princesses and slaying dragons and all that shit-and then somewhere along the way he realized he was the asshole, and the protagonists in her stories were always kind and handsome and charming-

But then y'know, it's not like Leonhart was ever any of those things either. But he's laying here blinking smears of stars from his eyes and Raijin's sitting on his fucking chest again, and there's more of that shit that can't be tears blurring out the world around him-

And he's got this feeling like somewhere along the way, the story got all ass-fucked. Like the dragon ate the hero instead of the villain, and now the villain's just sitting around twiddling his thumbs-breathing through a couple of broken ribs and some congealed vomit in his nostrils-trying to figure out what the hell he's supposed to do now.

Matron never told them stories about glazed little marble eyes and bled-pale knurls of death-stiffened claws that used to be hands.

Someone's coming for him.

He wants to tell them they've got the wrong guy-he's pretty sure something's wrong, like some shitheel added a couple of lines to the fairytale that weren't originally there, maybe crossed out a few things along the way-

But you ever tried to talk with a couple of broken ribs? Not the brightest fucking thing to do. Every single goddamned breath you take-it's like chest-fucking yourself with a knife. It's like every horrible thing that has ever happened in this universe is going on inside of you, right now, and you're supposed to be Seifer fucking Almasy of the Disciplinarian Committee, you're supposed to inspire shit pants and downcast eyes, you're supposed to be a _man_-

And the only thing you are right now, is this fetal-curled lump in the sand. The only thing you will ever be for the rest of your life is a blood and sand-smudged puddle next to this blank death-frosted glare that reminds you of this one time you put laxatives in Leonhart's lunch.

Asshole never could take a joke.

You're going to lie on this sand forever.

The rest of your life's going to pass in this semi second of a blink that you don't really pay attention to anyway, because you're never going to leave this beach.

How do ya' like that? He thinks he might have just passed his SeeD exam for the first time-they fail him after this and he's going to bring the motherfucking world crashing down onto their heads-and nothing after this is even going to matter.

Instructor Trepe's leaning over him.

She's as pale as Squall.

Squall-that's the guy's name-not Leonhart or Puberty Boy or any other derisive moniker he can think of-it's _Squall_, and did he just think '_that's_' the guy's name?

That was the guy's name.

That used to be the guy's name.

He's sorry, Quistis. He's not saying this out loud because he can't, because he hurts and he's not sure he wants to say anything right now, because she's trying to hold onto her composure for all she's worth, and there's a little spark right there, right behind the jagged knife-edged stubs of his ribs-

It wants him to hold her, just for a second.

He's going to pretend it's because she has nice tits.

She's trying to pull him to his feet.

He doesn't want to leave yet. It's kind of comfortable here, once you get used to it. She's peeling up his eyelids and leaning down like she wants to kiss him, studying his pupils for signs of head injury, and her hands are kinda' soft, for a soldier's.

Maybe everything just feels soft in comparison to his heart right now. It's a brittle singed little thing that keeps squeezing like a fist, and he wants to know when it's going to stop hurting. He wants to know when he can just go to sleep.

He wants to know why it's Leonhart lying there on the sand and not him. Was it supposed to be him? He kinda' suspects so.

Who bitched up the goddamned storyline?

"Seifer."

Maybe she knows the secret behind that shit leaking out of his eyes; her voice has never been this soft before. At least, not when she's talking to him.

Maybe she's pretending he's Squall. Maybe she understands something twisted and just plain fucking incorrect is happening here and maybe she's going to fix it-the woman radiates flawlessly put-together perfection like cheap fucking perfume, after all.

Maybe she's going to re-write the story.

Funny thing is, though, she's still saying his name. And it's his shoulders her hands are sliding gently underneath, and it's his head that's lolling up against her neck and his name she's crying when she calls out for help-

He's been dreaming about her crying out his name since he was about fourteen, you know-maybe Quistis Trepe's got a stick up her ass the size of his arm, but she's been wet dream worthy ever since she hit puberty and grew a magnificent pair of tits and legs. He's not ashamed to say he'd screw the hell out of her in the Secret Area if she ever deigned to let him. Probably wouldn't call her in the morning, though.

Give her a chance to think about what she'd done and come after him with that whip.

Funny the things you've got going through your head when the world's a smear of semiconscious black in front of your eyes. SeeD manual says you're supposed to ignore distractions no matter what, but the hell does it know anyway?

Hell, maybe it doesn't say that. He never really read the thing anyway.

His boots are dragging in the sand. He can see them swinging around next to Instructor Trepe's, and it's funny-she's got these coils of brown-smudged red looped lengthwise across the toes and it's the first time he's ever seen them too dirty to cast a reflection. Funnier thing is, she doesn't seem to care.

She's struggling under his weight. He'd like to help, y'know, but he's kinda' busy trying not to heave all across that gore-speckled footwear. Maybe she should stop shifting his fucking _ribs _around-leave a guy to die in peace.

He's not scared to die. Never was.

He's only afraid of not being remembered. That's on his parents, those _fuckers_-what kind of family just leaves a kid on a doorstep like he's their week-old trash they've been meaning to get rid of for some time now?

He wishes they could see him now. See assholes, see what your son's made of himself? Maybe he doesn't look like a whole lot of anything right now, spitting blood and teeth and little chunks of tongue that taste like cafeteria hot dog-but he's on his way. He's on his fucking _way_, and one day he's going to light up the world.

And you're going to be sorry. You're going to be sorry you ever decided he wasn't good enough, because he's good enough to save at least, even if Trepe's faltering more and more under his weight-important thing is she's still not setting him down, she's not fucking _dropping him off_-even if she wishes it was a different head on her neck and another arm across her shoulders-

At least she came back for him.

Maybe he'll thank her one day. Not right now, though.

There are still little knots of combat going on around them, and maybe he is stone-cold batshit-

Because his blood's singing just a little, watching them from his vantage point against Instructor Trepe's neck. He's feeling that machine gun in one hand and gunblade in the other and he's probably done for anyway, so why not give him one final blaze of glory? That's all he wants, you know.

Fu and Raij'll get over it. They've got each other.

He's never really had anyone.

But forget that. It's his story now anyway. He'll make shit up as he goes along, if he needs to.

The beach slides out from underneath him and Trepe's gone now and there's this swirl of black sucking him down that smashes more stars spinning across his eyes-

* * *

><p><em>Tell you a story.<em>

_Once upon a time there was a boy who was supposed to be a hero. _

_But forget him._

_He didn't make it._

_This is not a fucking fairytale, after all. _


End file.
